The quarter horse registration papers gave his name as “Bengal Gold.” I paid Wayne four hundred bucks for this horse he called Ben, and another two hundred for a well-used western saddle. Another hundred for a pair of shit-kickers, and ten grand to Strang for twenty seven head of pregnant cows, and I was a real live cowboy.

This was in the fall of ’72, the cows were stubble grazing in the lower field and about to be moved into the pens for winter feeding and calving. Ben would not be ridden, for even the first time, until late next spring when the cows would look for scarce and sparse early pasture and become, well, undisciplined.

Ben spent a hard winter like this, waiting at the fence for his ration of hay and occasional handful of oats. I talked to him in soothing tones and kinda thought we were bonding, a horse and his cowboy. Spring came late and it became time to saddle Ben up and go fetch the cows from the neighbor’s front yard—the neighbor had called, “Get your goddamn cows outa my yard or I’ll shoot ‘em.”

With Ben’s face in a bucket of oats I got the saddle on and swung myself into it. A startled Ben geared into full gallop straight for fence; terrified I found that jerking and pulling on the reins had no effect. As we came to the fence his successful sudden stop caused my sudden flight over the fence. I sold the horse and saddle, kept the boots and learned to deal with the cows on my Bultaco Sherpa T.